


Reckless

by Aethelflaed



Series: Careful [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bad Angel Michael (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Forbidden Love, Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Hopeful Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Michael Being an Asshole (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sandalphon Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Scared Crowley (Good Omens), St James's Park (Good Omens), There's a bit of a pattern here, True Love, Uriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: After Aziraphale's reckless confession, he and Crowley must make plans to keep themselves safe.But the worst happens when certain uninvited guests arrive at the bookshop...--Aziraphale swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “You aren’t safe. It’s my fault, carrying on in a public place like that…”“No.” A hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, fingers playing through the curls. “I asked for this. I wanted this. I told you I was ready to fight for what we have, and I meant it.” He tilted his head, lips brushing across Aziraphale’s forehead. “Though it would help if I had Holy Water.”Aziraphale glanced at the door of the shop. “I can’t just miracle it up. It takes time. And anything more than a few ounces and Heaven will notice, send someone to investigate.” He wasn’t ready for that yet. To confront the other angels. To admit how far he’d strayed from his orders and his purpose.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Careful [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598518
Comments: 50
Kudos: 177





	Reckless

**Author's Note:**

> There was quite a lot of demand for a follow-up to "Careful" so here it is - this story takes place immediately afterwards.

Aziraphale had always been careful.

Not anymore.

Rushing up Regent Street in the middle of the day at Crowley’s side, so close their shoulders brushed, so close every human they passed could see what had been kept secret for so long. Could see it in their clothes, still in disarray. Could see it in the smile on Aziraphale’s face, in the glances he shot at the demon next to him.

Crowley hid his expression better, with his dark lenses and perpetually sour face, but who could miss how both pairs of hands, ungloved, constantly reached out to touch the shoulder, the small of the back, the curve of the face?

Feeling daring, Aziraphale offered his elbow. Crowley wrapped both arms around it, clinging as if he were a drowning man and Aziraphale a spar of wood; as if Crowley were lost in a blizzard and Aziraphale were the only source of heat; as if the world were a monsoon and Aziraphale might blow away in the wind.

An angel and a demon, walking arm-in-arm down one of London’s busiest streets.

Utterly reckless.

Aziraphale walked faster.

By the time they reached the shop, they were almost running.

Aziraphale fumbled with the key as Crowley stood oh so close behind him, one hand at his wrist, the other sliding across his hip, his waist, the curve of his stomach, pulling him back into that unfathomable heat. Aziraphale’s hand shook and the key fell to the ground.

Careless.

“Crowley,” he gasped, winded not only from their run. “You said you wanted to _talk.”_

“Not only talk.” Warm breath stirring through his short hair.

“Not here. It isn’t safe.”

“Then get that door open!”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the doors sprang apart. Together they stumbled, tumbled, fell through the door, fell to the floor.

Crowley knelt over him, fists still clutching Aziraphale’s lapels from when he’d tried to slow the angel’s descent. The expression on that narrow face was something entirely new.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers again and the door slammed shut, locked, the shades drawn as Crowley leaned down –

And kissed him breathless.

Six thousand years.

Six thousand years since a meaningless reassurance, a bad joke, a shared laugh had untwisted the knot of anxious worry that was Aziraphale’s constant companion, given him a moment’s relief from the endless press of fear.

It had only lasted a second the first time. But again and again, this demon had made him feel happy. Safe. Fearless.

And in his heart, something had grown, something with an ineffability that had nothing to do with the Plans of Heaven.

When Crowley finally released him, sitting up, Aziraphale felt as if his soul went too – gently pulled out of his body by those lips, left to hover between them in the air of the bookshop.

“So. Ahem.” Azirpahale sat up, attempting to smooth his jacket, recover any of his dignified attitude. “I suppose now we, ah, talk.”

“Mmh.” Crowley reached up, adjusting Azirpahale’s cravat with a crooked smile. “I can’t think of a thing to say.”

Aziraphale snatched his fingers, pressed them to his lips.

Centuries of hovering around each other, fearing to even brush against the other’s skin in case the fire it ignited should burn them to ashes. Now that they’d finally crossed that line, thrown all caution to the wind, he realized he might never be able to s _top._

It was addictive.

And he was powerless to resist.

The smell of Crowley’s perfume, the salty taste of his skin, the gentle burn of his fingertips as they cupped Aziraphale’s chin, turning his face toward those lips, oh, those lips…

_Here we go again._

Aziraphale finally broke the cycle, broke the kiss, putting his hand on Crowley’s chest, tilting him back. Giving himself enough space to breathe, to speak, to think.

“Are we safe?”

Crowley reached up and pulled his glasses off. “I don’t care anymore.” Oh, the softness of those slit-pupil eyes was almost enough for Aziraphale to lose himself again.

“You said –” He took a deep breath, searching for that reserve of caution and worry that had kept them safe for so long. “You said Hell has been…watching you. Checking in more often. Is there a chance anyone saw us?”

“I think just about everyone saw us.” A laugh, just a hiss of breath across the teeth as Crowley leaned closer, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “But my side…I don’t know. I won’t know until they come for me.”

Aziraphale swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “You aren’t safe. It’s my fault, carrying on in a public place like that…”

“No.” A hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, fingers playing through the curls. “I asked for this. I wanted this. I told you I was ready to fight for what we have, and I meant it.” He tilted his head, lips brushing across Aziraphale’s forehead. “Though it would help if I had Holy Water.”

Aziraphale glanced at the door of the shop. “I can’t just miracle it up. It takes _time._ And anything more than a few ounces and Heaven will notice, send someone to investigate.” He wasn’t ready for that yet. To confront the other angels. To admit how far he’d strayed from his orders and his purpose.

“A few ounces will kill a demon.”

“Do you think they’ll only send one?”

“It’s still better than _nothing.”_

Aziraphale’s mind reeled. They weren’t having this conversation. It was absurd. They couldn’t win a fight. Safety came from _avoiding_ a fight. They had to be clever. “No. You need to leave London.”

“What?” Crowley pulled back in shock.

“We have to assume your side already knows. If they find you, they’ll destroy you. London isn’t safe. England isn’t safe. I don’t know if anywhere in the world is safe, but someplace quiet and secluded should do for a start.” He stood up quickly, bustled around the shop, searching.

“Angel!” The familiar snap was back in his voice. “I told you, I’m not going to leave you. You can’t just – send me away!”

“You can’t stop me,” Aziraphale reminded him mildly. “I’m a Warrior of Heaven.”

“What are you going to do?” Under that angry scowl, the lip quirked just a little, a smile fighting to get free. “Tie me up and throw me on a boat?”

“If I had to, yes. But it’s not necessary in this case.” He found what he was looking for, held it up: a heavy leather Gladstone bag. “I’m coming with you.”

The words weren’t quite as hard to say as he’d expected. They only tore through his heart a little.

“Angel, no.” Crowley scrambled to his feet, following after him. “This shop is…your dream. Your home. You can’t just leave it.”

Aziraphale dropped the bag onto the nearest table, clearing aside a stack of Charles Dickens and making room between statuettes of angels. He rushed back to the shelves, gathering books with shaking hands. “There are protections woven on the building. For when I’m away on assignment. Humans will just ignore it, walk past. They should last for years, decades without needing to be refreshed. Plenty of time to come up with a plan.”

“You can’t be serious,” Crowley objected, as Aziraphale turned back towards the table with his autographed books of prophecy and began arranging them into a neat stack. “Decades? You think they’ll give up on us that quickly? Aziraphale, if we leave London, they’ll – we might _never_ be able to return.”

“Then we don’t return.” Aziraphale busied his hands with organizing his favorite misprint Bibles.

“You love this shop. These books,” Crowley reminded him gently.

“Not as much as I love you.” He said it with all the conviction he had, but it still hurt. Even when Crowley wrapped his arms around Azirpahale’s waist, buried his lips in Aziraphale’s hair.

He wanted that warmth, that love. Ached for it. There was no doubt in his mind that leaving was the right thing, the smart thing to do. But Aziraphale would leave a piece of himself behind, forever missing the life he could have had.

“There’s just…so much.” His eyes roamed across the endless shelves, just dusty enough to discourage enthusiastic browsing; the countless volumes, each one a priceless treasure, lovingly collected over the decades. “How do I know what to take?”

“We can rebuild your collection,” Crowley promised, nose brushing down toward Aziraphale’s ear. “Just take what’s irreplaceable.”

Aziraphale turned to face him, slipping his arms around Crowley’s neck. “Oh, I’ve already got that.” He closed his eyes, leaning in, seeking the soft lips and hot breath of the demon –

“The _Lemegeton!”_ Aziraphale pushed Crowley back.

“I – what?”

“The _Lesser Key of Solomon!_ I need to get that.”

“I know what – why do you want a demon summoning manual?”

“It’s a special edition,” Aziraphale explained, already running toward the shelves in the back. “Just pack those up for me, there’s a dear.”

Crowley grumbled something, then raised his voice to add, “Get that Austen one while you’re back there.”

The only sound was his footsteps – quick and sharp on the hardwood floor. He took his time over the grimoires – there wasn’t a moment to spare, but these could be useful.

The _Ghayat al-Hakim fi’l-Sihr._

The _Liber Juratus Honorii._

The _Sefer Raziel HaMalakh._

The _Book of Abramelin._

Aziraphale carefully stacked them on a table, and the pile grew worryingly tall. How would he carry them all? Did he have another bag, perhaps? Or could he miracle them small enough to fit? He hated miracling his books, of course, but these were dire circumstances –

The bell over the shop door chimed.

It should have been locked.

Cautiously, trying not to make any noise as he moved, Aziraphale shifted back to the end of the shelf, leaned past to see into the main circle of the shop. The door was still shut. He couldn’t see any customer. He couldn’t see Crowley, either, but another shelf blocked the table from view.

It was far too quiet.

Aziraphale stepped back into the shadows, clutching a thick book in either hand, concentrating.

He could sense Crowley somewhere nearby. Probably still in the shop. And another supernatural entity. More than one, but shielding themselves. He would have to –

“Aziraphale! Glad to see you’re alright.”

He spun. There, striding down the length of the shelf: the Archangel Gabriel, grinning with cheerful good humor.

“Alright – Of – of course. I’m fine!” Aziraphale tried to match Gabriel’s smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Wrong thing to say. The smile vanished like a candle snuffed out, leaving only the warm violet eyes, carefully blank, revealing nothing. “Because of the demon threatening you.”

“Ah. Yes. That.” He tried to swallow, but his heart seemed lodged in his throat.

“We had reason to believe you were in danger. I came down personally to check on you.”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale shifted the books from one side to the other. How much did Gabriel know? Worse, what did he _think_ he knew? “That’s…most kind of you, really. I’m – I’m flattered you would…er…”

“We assumed you’d be _relieved_ to get backup from a few fellow angels.”

“A _few?_ ” He cleared his throat. “No. Yes. I’m – I’m – I’m…”

The arm Gabriel put around his shoulders was decidedly less friendly than usual. “Let’s get this sorted out,” the Archangel said, steering Aziraphale back towards the front of the shop.

Any protest died in his throat when he saw Crowley, still standing at the table where Aziraphale had left him, but no longer alone.

His hands were pressed flat on either side of the bag full of books. To his left stood the Archangel Uriel, to his right, Sandalphon. Each resting a hand on one of Crowley’s arms.

The demon stood absolutely motionless between them, eyes once again shielded by dark glasses.

Beside the table stood Michael, flipping through one of Aziraphale’s books.

“What did you find?” Gabriel asked, not releasing Aziraphale just yet. Three pairs of eyes – and one of black lenses – turned to face them, all four gazes equally expressionless.

“Looks like prophecies,” Michael said distastefully, tossing aside the book of Mother Shipton’s verses. It hit the ground with a sickening CRACK. Aziraphale tried not to flinch at the thought of the damage. The arm over his shoulders tightened just slightly before finally pulling away.

“What would a demon want with books of prophecy?” Gabriel gestured to the nearby armchair. “Have a seat, Aziraphale,” the Archangel offered. As if this wasn’t Aziraphale’s shop.

Michael picked up another book, turning pages so sharply that they tore.

“Oh, that’s…ah, quite alright.” Aziraphale shifted the two books he carried, pressing them to his chest, trying to steady his hands again. “I’ll…I’ll stand. After all,” a short laugh bubbled out, “everyone else is standing.”

This was bad, of course, but at least it was Heaven they were confronted with, not Hell. That must give them a chance. Surely, if he could just explain, the Archangels would be _reasonable…_

“Not everyone,” Gabriel corrected, nodding to Sandalphon.

The shorter angel struck, fist sinking into Crowley’s side.

As the demon fell to the floor, Sandalphon’s other hand caught him on the side of the head, knocking his glasses askew, throwing him back. Crowley sprawled on his side. Boneless. Defenseless.

Uriel grabbed his jacket, hauling him back onto his knees. “Hands where we can see them,” the Archangel intoned, and Crowley quickly obeyed, flattening his palms against the table once more.

He didn’t resist at all. He hadn’t even made a sound.

“Something wrong, Aziraphale?” Michael asked, studying his face.

_Get yourself under control!_

Aziraphale quickly schooled his features, trying to find the calm stillness he wore as a mask. It had always been ill-fitting, but now it was cracked, falling apart, broken by the emotions of the day.

Useless.

“I don’t approve of violence in my shop,” he said as evenly as he could. He tried to catch Crowley’s eye, beg him for some hint what they should do next. But the face was as stony as when they’d met at the park, when Crowley had first made the awful request that set all of this in motion.

“We should all just take a moment and…and talk this through,” Aziraphale continued. “There’s been a…misunderstanding.”

“Really?” Gabriel glanced at the other angels, arms folded now, face mildly curious. “Please, enlighten us. What have we misunderstood?”

Carefully, trying to buy time to think, Aziraphale placed the two books he carried on the table, angling the spines so no one could read them. On top was Crowley’s favorite, _The Complete Works of Jane Austen._ Below that, the _Lesser Key of Solomon._ That would be harder to explain.

“You all know, I think, the demon Crowley.” He gestured weakly, smiling into four pairs of uncaring angelic eyes. Or tried to – Gabriel stood behind him, Michael a little too far to the side. He had to keep turning, twisting, trying to see them all. “He’s been my adversary for nearly six thousand years. And he is here…today…to…defect!”

“Defect?” Gabriel frowned, brow furrowed slightly. “What, precisely, does that mean?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, trying to marshal his thoughts, though his mind was a whirlwind.

When his eyes landed on Crowley, the demon gave a tiny head-shake. But it was too late now.

“Well, earlier today, he…Crowley, he sent me a message to meet him at a location. And, oh, I expected a trap because he is a cunning, wily enemy, as you know, always a step ahead of me!” He cleared his throat, wishing the other angels would respond, give him _something_ to work with. “Or, half a step. A step behind. It’s a very, sort of, cat-and-mouse…yes.” Aziraphale’s hands kept twisting in front of him. He tried to fold them behind his back, tried to stop his body from swinging nervously. “In any case, he told me the Opposition had some…big plan brewing. Brought these books as proof. He wanted to…to stop this plan. He has agreed to renounce his Rebellion, and…and rejoin the Choirs of Heaven,” he finished triumphantly.

In the cold silence that followed, Crowley hung his head. Aziraphale tried to ignore the sick feeling inside.

He knew perfectly well Crowley had no interest in rejoining Heaven, had quite nearly spit in Aziraphale’s face the one time he’d suggested it. But it was the only thing he could think of right now, the only path that might end in safety for them both.

They’d been fools to think that they could fight. That Aziraphale could do anything other than obey, follow the purpose he'd been designed for. This was the logical solution.

The Archangels would be skeptical, of course, but Aziraphale was willing to vouch for Crowley’s loyalty, to swear by anything that the offer was sincere. Surely Gabriel would see the value of inside knowledge, and in time even come to accept Crowley as one of their own.

They could be on the same side.

If only Crowley would chime in with some plan of Hell’s, anything, to prove his worth.

The demon had never been so quiet.

Finally, after a long penetrating look that left Aziraphale feeling lost and exposed, Gabriel turned to the other angels. “Michael?”

Heaven’s Chief Soldier and Head of Intelligence began laying pieces of blank white paper on the table. Three of them. “Where did you meet?” A sharp, clipped voice.

“Far from here,” Aziraphale lied, not wanting to give Heaven any reason to look into their behavior at the Park. “The other side of London. At a pub.”

“Why didn’t you report this immediately?”

“It was rather a large story to swallow.” That was certainly true. “I…wanted to interrogate the demon privately, ensure he was telling the truth. I mean, I wouldn’t,” another laugh he couldn’t control. “I wouldn’t waste your time with an unverified report, would I?”

“How did you return?”

“Hired a carriage. Better to be seen by as few as possible. And we needed to move quickly. Hell could notice his absence at any moment.”

Michael straightened the three pieces of paper on the table, letting his words hang in the air a little longer. “And why was your name inside that book?”

Of course. _Autographed_ books of prophecy. “Well, obviously, _that one_ was mine.” He cleared his throat again, glancing at the bag. The rest were still packed. Michael shouldn’t have had time to check more than one or two. “I have quite the collection and I needed them to, ah, to cross-check. Confirm the others were authentic. I put it in the bag because…I…”

Gabriel’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “That’s all we need.”

Crowley still knelt, slumped over, nothing visible now but two long hands and a shock of red hair.

“Why…is the demon…being so quiet?” Aziraphale tried to smile. “Usually can’t shut him up, you know.”

“We have our ways.” Uriel stretched out one delicate hand, and with a snap of fingers manifested a smoky amber marble, hovering in the air.

And as they watched, it spoke with Crowley’s voice.

“I followed him to the park. Don’t know why he went, but he always goes alone. Makes it an ideal place for a Temptation. I tried to trick him into giving me valuable books, knowledge my side could use in the coming days. Didn’t work. Clever bastard saw right through it as always. So, I overpowered him, dragged him back here, forced him to let me in, give me his precious books. The only reason he’s going along is because I told him I can burn the shop down with Hellfire, him with it. Once he knows that’s not true, he’ll turn against me.”

“Lies,” Aziraphale whispered weakly. Their stories contradicted on nearly every point. In trying to save them both, he’d sealed their fate.

It was hopeless.

“We offered the demon mercy in exchange for the truth,” Uriel said, voice chillingly flat.

“Besides, a demon _can’t_ renounce its rebellion,” Michael explained, as if to a child. “That’s what makes them _demons.”_

“Fortunately,” Gabriel interjected brightly, “we don’t need to rely on testimony alone.”

Michael reached across the table, turned over one piece of paper.

On the reverse was an image of Crowley and Aziraphale at the duck pond, the demon grasping at him even as Aziraphale tried to turn away. It certainly could look as if Crowley were threatening him, if you hadn’t been there, hadn’t felt the soft tenderness of his touch, heard his urgent voice – _Angel. Aziraphale. I will never leave you._

“They met in the park.” All condescension was gone from Michael’s voice now, leaving nothing but ice.

The second page turned over, showing the pair running down Regent’s street, Crowley’s hands hooked around Aziraphale’s elbow.

“The demon dragged him back by the arm.”

The third page. Standing before the door of the shop, Crowley clutching his wrist as he fumbled with the key, jaw tight as he hissed into Aziraphale’s ear.

“The demon forced him to open the shop.”

Michael looked up, grey eyes flicking from Aziraphale’s face to where Gabriel stood behind him. “Only one story matches the evidence. Which raises another question: Why would an angel lie?”

The hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder squeezed, and it didn’t feel friendly at all. “I’m sure there’s a _reasonable_ explanation.”

“The…the Hellfire,” Aziraphale mumbled, all but breathless. Crowley’s head tilted up again, and now he could see one golden eye visible above the frame of the glasses. Terrified. “He said…he’d…”

“You still feared him?” Michael asked, smiling dangerously. “Even with all of us here to subdue him?”

“Why didn’t you say something in the back of the shop?” Gabriel wondered.

“Why lie about the location of the meeting?” Uriel turned the golden marble between two fingers.

“Could be he was corrupted by the demon,” Sandalphon suggested, jerking back on Crowley’s hair, arcing his neck.

Aziraphale struggled to keep a straight face, to keep his panic under control. “That’s. No. Ridiculous.”

“I’ve heard such things might be possible,” Uriel offered, plucking the glasses from Crowley’s face, studying them, tossing them aside. “Enough demonic influence could corrode an angel’s Grace. Irredeemably.”

“Well, no angel is _irredeemable.”_ Gabriel pointed out.

“There were some,” Michael reminded him. “A few thousand years ago.” All eyes turned to Crowley.

“We could let him speak,” Sandalphon suggested.

“It would be cruel not to,” Michael’s voice was almost sickly sweet. “After all, we’re angels.”

Uriel pressed the glowing marble to Crowley’s lips. The demon breathed it in with a gasp –

“You got me,” he said, voice strained from the way his head was still held back. Sandalphon released it, just enough to let him meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “I corrupted him. Or tried to. Stubborn bastard resisted me every step of the way. But it almost worked.”

Solid gold eyes, not a hint of white, pupils narrow. Filled with fear and desperation, but Aziraphale could still see what burned behind that, the fire he’d pretended to ignore for so many centuries. The familiar smirk appeared, arrogant and reassuring. “Discorporating me will undo my work, but don’t think this is the end of it, Angel. I’ll be back, if it takes a hundred years, if I have to claw my way out of Hell. And we will pick up exactly where we left off.”

Aziraphale swallowed back his tears. “Oh, you’re wrong. Things are going to be different next time,” he vowed. “I’ll be ready for you. I’ll be waiting.”

He knew he should be looking at the Archangels, gauging their reactions, seeing if they believed it. But he couldn’t turn away, couldn’t waste one second of the time they had left.

It occurred to him, almost idly, that Crowley had never actually said _I love you._

He didn’t doubt it, of course. He just wished he had the words to hold on to, when the light left those eyes, to sustain him during the long wait for Crowley’s return.

“Oh, after a threat like that, I don’t think we should discorporate him.”

Blue and gold eyes turned to see Michael holding a blade. A stiletto, narrow and straight, little more than an oversized paperknife. But sharp, and the deep bronze-gold of a holy weapon, glowing with its own mighty aura.

Not a sword. The blade of the Archangel Michael could take whatever shape was needed, and a sword wouldn’t be necessary here.

“Don’t – that’s ridiculous.” For the first time, Crowley began to visibly struggle, trying to break free of the iron grips that held him in place. “You – you can’t!”

“This isn’t how we do things,” Aziraphale said, voice tight. “We deal with our own, Hell deals with theirs.”

“Naïve,” Uriel said, smirking, almost laughing, and reached over to loosen Crowley’s collar, exposing a pale throat.

As Michael stepped closer, Crowley ground his teeth. A flash of red and black across his body as he prepared to shift form – and the power dissipated, brushed aside by the angels who held him. “No.” More miracles flashed across his skin – black to change size, red to create fire, even brilliant white to stop time – each sizzled harmlessly into the air. “No!”

Sandalphon grabbed his hair again, pulling his head back painfully.

“Don’t.” Aziraphale cried, shaking with terror, with pain. “Please. This is murder.”

“It isn’t,” Gabriel said, almost soothingly. “You’ll see. Once we’ve removed this corrupting influence, we’ll bring you back to Heaven. Remind you of your loyalties, your purpose, everything you’ve forgotten. You’ll see this was right.”

Crowley continued to fight, to struggle, to scream every curse he knew at the ones who held him. But Aziraphale could only watch. Unable to move, unable to help, unable to think –

Witless. Powerless. Helpless.

This was Aziraphale’s fault.

This was where his thoughtless words had brought them.

All he’d needed to do was refuse the holy water, walk away, and they would have been safe. Crowley would have been _safe._ Instead, he’d shouted out words, emotions, things better left unspoken for all of time.

He’d been careless. Reckless.

Gabriel stood behind him, much as Crowley had less than an hour ago, when the world had seemed new and full of possibility.

Michael’s blade moved inexorably forwards.

Crowley screamed, wordless.

Aziraphale snapped.

\--

There was one thing that every being in the room had forgotten, perhaps Aziraphale most of all:

The quiet, bookish angel with the manicured nails and tartan cravat had been created as a warrior. Not just any warrior, the Guardian of Eden.

Protector of Humanity, Heaven’s greatest weapon against all of demonkind.

He had rejected that role, run from it, hidden from it.

But now, seeing a holy blade mere inches from the throat of the one he loved most – _he embraced it._

\--

With all the power granted to him by Heaven, Aziraphale drove his elbow into Gabriel’s solar plexus, sending the Archangel reeling.

Then he grabbed the nearest book and threw the heavy tome at Michael, corner of the spine striking just where neck met shoulder.

Two down.

A calm settled over Aziraphale’s mind. He fell into a fighting stance, one he never remembered using or even learning. It was recorded somewhere at the very base of his being.

As he watched, his remaining opponents released Crowley, circling warily towards him. He could see their true power, hidden behind their customary forms, Sandalphon’s stretching upwards, tall as mountains, Uriel’s coiled like a steel trap.

They were warriors. Michael, too; a blow to the neck wouldn’t immobilize the General of Heaven’s Legions for very long.

Three against one might almost be equal odds.

He would need to end this quickly.

Dozens of eyes opened along Aziraphale’s arms, across his face, taking in the room from every angle.

Two steps and a lunge, fist rising to meet Uriel’s ribs, but the Archangel dodged away, swinging for Aziraphale’s head. He ducked easily; it was only a distraction, meant to keep him from noticing Sandalphon circling behind him.

As if he could be fooled so easily.

Aziraphale reached back, grabbed Sandalphon’s arm, spun, hurling the other angel at Uriel.

The impact, angel against angel, sent them both staggering back, colliding with the nearest bookcase. The shelves wobbled dangerously, dropping hardbound books, but didn’t collapse.

They would be back in a moment, but Aziraphale had accomplished his goal.

Crowley was free.

He turned back to the red-haired demon, kneeling on the floor, and smiled, though not with the muscles of his face. That’s not what they were for. Instead, it shone through his whole being.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, rising to his feet. “Is that…you?”

What a strange question. He’d never _felt_ more…himself.

Walking on bare feet, white robes shaking gently in the breeze, Aziraphale reached out a hand to cradle his face. Had Crowley always been so small, so delicate? He hardly even reached Aziraphale’s shoulder.

He could see Crowley's true self, as well, coiled in the air around him like a serpent. Torn and scarred from timeless epochs of abuse, from fighting to survive, but still intact, still strong, still woven through with golden threads of love that no power in Creation could destroy.

Yes, it was all so clear now. This beautiful, precious being needed to be protected.

That was Aziraphale's Purpose.

Behind him, the other angels prepared to attack. He could see the energy gathering around Sandalphon – always smiting, that one. There wouldn’t be time for Crowley to reach the door.

“Angel…” Tear-filled golden eyes reflected the soft white light that surrounded them.

“Go, my love.”

He let himself linger on the demon a few nanoseconds longer, enough time to memorize every line and furrow on that face.

Then he turned his full attention to his opponents.

Sandalphon’s blast of energy raced towards him, and Aziraphale caught it in one hand, crumpled it like paper, let the power flow back into the air like the heat of summer.

Michael had joined them again, blade in hand. Where had Aziraphale’s blade gone? It was a nice sword, flaming. Very impressive.

_Ah, well. Improvisation it is._

Three angels rushed towards him.

With a wave of Aziraphale’s hand, sixty-three angel figurines came to life throughout the shop, and flew in to intercept them.

Not that his little army could do much other than provide a distraction, but they did that beautifully, tugging on hair and clothing, giving the other angels too many things to concentrate on. He could see the way they dodged, fruitless, careening into each other. The way their minds raced, trying to keep up with the action, to take everything in.

But Aziraphale’s mind was glacially calm. It was nothing at all to track all the trajectories, to see what each of the other angels planned to do.

To walk into the swirling melee and with a casual backhand, send Uriel across the shop to crash into the back wall.

His mind had never been so clear. If this was what hid behind the anxiety and fear, why, he should have given in _eons_ ago.

The other angels moved so _slowly._ They were so _tiny._

Even Sandalphon, fists flying, couldn’t keep up with Aziraphale’s movements; the Guardian picked him up and threw him across the shop.

It was so simple. So _easy._

Effortless.

Until Michael’s blade sank into his right shoulder.

The brilliant fire of pain cut through the calm of his mind. Aziraphale screamed, not with sound, but with a wave of power rolling through the air, shaking the books from their shelves. His army of miniature angels fell, the glass and ceramic ones shattering with the sound of a hundred broken hearts.

He stumbled back, jerking the blade out of Michael’s hand. Bright gold ichor ran down his arm; dozens of eyes tried to blink themselves clear, focus on the room, the enemies again.

They were back again, all three, trying to rush him, overwhelm him. They thought this made him weak, to lose one arm, as if he didn’t still have another to fight with.

But suddenly his movements were slow, clumsy. He couldn’t see fifteen steps ahead in the fight anymore.

Now it was all he could do to keep them at bay.

“Aziraphale. You need to stop this.”

A handful of his eyes turned to look at Gabriel, standing just beyond the fighters, face a picture of stern disapproval.

“No.” His enemies still stood. He had to keep them busy…keep them from…

“Can’t you see what’s happened?” The Chief Archangel continued. “You’re fighting your own kind. The corruption must be worse than we thought.”

“I’m not corrupted,” he said, pulling the blade from his shoulder. It was so tiny. His fingers didn’t seem to want to hold onto it. His right hand was numb.

Useless.

“Come on, Aziraphale. Does this look like the work of a _healthy_ angel?” Arms spread wide indicating the fight, the broken figurines, the toppled books, the shop itself. “We’ve had our suspicions for a long time. Frivolous miracles. Attachment to material objects. To ephemeral beings. To foods! Who knows how long the poison has been creeping into your mind? But it might not be too late.”

A steady hand held out, palm up. An offer. “Come back with us. We can purify you. Make you whole again.”

Aziraphale took a step back, but suddenly it was hard to keep balance. Michael's blade wavered, nearly fell from his grip. He was…tired. “That’s not…”

“What other choice do you have?” Gabriel pressed on. “If you continue to fight, you will lose. Why destroy yourself? Why reject the power of Heaven? For _that?”_

Two eyes on his shoulder followed the gesture.

There, by the open door of the shop, crouching, hidden, so that Aziraphale had failed to notice –

“Crowley. Why are you still here?”

He straightened, slowly, clinging to the doorframe. Tense, shivering, hardly able to stand – yet his eyes stayed locked on Aziraphale. Unwavering. “I told you. I will never leave you.” He held out his shaking hand, palm up. “Come on, Angel. Time to go.”

Aziraphale blinked half of his eyes, then the other half.

His right hand flashed, throwing the blade of Michael, pinning Gabriel to a bookcase by one coat sleeve.

Aziraphale scooped up the last book, lying on the table beside him, swinging it towards the other angels, scattering them. He felt it hit one, but he didn’t pause to see which, to notice if there was any damage.

He ran.

In three steps, he was where he belonged, beside his demon, grasping that hand, feeling Crowley’s strength pull him through the door.

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley miracled the doors shut, locked, and Aziraphale collapsed against them. Normal height, two eyes, familiar suit, rumpled and torn. No holy glow, just a long blood stain down one sleeve, a dull pain that went straight through his shoulder.

His head felt fuzzy, confused, packed once again with doubts and worries. He couldn’t even remember exactly what had happened – it was like sobering up after a particularly rough night of drinking. He needed rest.

But there wasn’t time for that.

He tossed the _Key of Solomon_ to Crowley. “Page one-hundred eighty-three.”

“What?”

“The incantation.” He pressed his left hand to his wound, quickly drawing a circle of blood on the window of the door, right over the sign reading _Sorry, We’re Closed._ “Hurry!”

Crowley flipped through the pages. “I don’t recognize any of this!”

“I told you – it’s a special edition.” He glanced at the page Crowley held out for him, added a few lines to the sigil drawn in blood. “Manuals on summoning, binding and warding off both demons…and angels!”

He muttered the incantation under his breath –

Energy ripped through his body, down his arm, into the mark of blood –

And the whole shop glowed in a faint blue light.

Aziraphale let out a deep breath, letting himself fall to his knees beside the door, boneless with exhaustion.

“That should hold them. Not very long. Depends on how angry Gabriel is.”

“Angel. What…in there…”

“Crowley, I can’t.”

“Aziraphale, you –”

He turned to face the demon, and every fear and worry rose like the tears to his eyes, and he didn’t have the strength to hold them back anymore. “Please, don’t ask me. I just…what have I done?” He held one shaking hand to his forehead. He couldn’t even think through all the emotions. Anger. Grief. Pain. Fear. Loss. They seemed so much bigger than him. “I – I attacked the Archangels. I’m _in Rebellion!_ Of all the angels who ever disobeyed, I must be the worst…most wretched…”

Crowley knelt beside him, pressing the book into Aziraphale’s chest. The angel instinctively grabbed it.

It was comforting, feeling the press of leather and paper against his hands. Even more comforting when Crowley reached across, traced a hand along his cheek, and whispered reverently: “You were beautiful.”

Then Crowley picked up something that lay on the sidewalk beside them: a brown leather bag. Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed it was missing from the table.

“My books!”

Without his glasses, Crowley seemed so different. Not the cold, distant demon full of ridiculous plans and cunning temptations. He seemed more frail, more vulnerable, and very, very tired.

But he still managed the same careless shrug and arrogant smirk. “Well, I might not be much good in a fight after all, but I’m not completely worthless.” He stood up, then held out his hand. “They’ll _all_ be coming for us now.”

Aziraphale pushed aside the emotions that clouded his mind, grasped that hand, let it pull him to his feet.

And didn’t let go.

An angel and a demon, running hand-in-hand down one of London’s busiest streets.

Utterly reckless.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Quick history note: All the medieval grimoires listed are works containing demonology and, in a few cases, angelology, though none actually contain explanations of how to bind and trap multiple Archangels. That's why they needed a special edition. I use Wikipedia summaries of these (especially the Ars Goetia, one of the books in the Lesser Key of Solomon) for coming up with demon OCs.
> 
> So I knew the major events of this story within a few days of sharing "Careful," but when I went to write them it all wound up a bit...much. Especially when I couldn't decide which angel Gabriel was going to bring with him, and my brain said, "why not all of them?"
> 
> Hopefully the end result isn't too overwhelming.
> 
> I've mentioned elsewhere that a lot of these non-"Sawdust of Words" stories are to explore things I don't think I can include in that series. Specifically, if Aziraphale is ever going to go full-BAMF, it won't be for quite some time. So I took the opportunity to indulge a little while I was here.
> 
> (Also, somehow, STILL no one has managed to punch Gabriel in the face. At least Sandalphon did get yeeted, as I promised someone on Tumblr.)
> 
> Thank you again! There will be one more part, but I'm not sure when I'll get to it. Subscribe to the story to be notified!


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